El Dia de Los Muertos
by Freakish Lemon
Summary: post-OUATIM. Six years later Chiclet boy remembers...grr..accent mark won't work in the title...


A/N:  This is my first Once Upon A Time In Mexico fic; I hope it meets the standard. Characters do not belong to me. They belong to Rodriguez. I'm not making any _dinero_ off this. All flames will be used to make s'mores and burn a crap-load of incense. And please excuse my Spanish, I'm still learning. Spanish will be in _italics_ and the translations will be at the end.

_El Día de Los Muertos_

By Freakish Lemon

Parched wind slithers across the dust to snake its way through the young man's black hair. Brown fingers trace through grooves in hard wood; grooves made by an inexpert hand years ago.

A small smile twitches at the corners of dry lips. His hands still bore the scars of his attempt at carpentry. Memories of an old man who spoke to him of how to shape the slabs of dead tree, how to lash the two pieces together. The old man had even given him the things he needed. But his old hands no longer obeyed the old man's still sharp mind. The boy had had to do it himself.

The body had been buried before he had finished. A priest had been called. Prayers had been said for a man who might not have had a soul in a grave that did not yet had a mark, with only a young boy, a gravedigger, and the priest himself to witness. There was nothing to say that a body lay beneath the dirt, save for a raised mound amongst other raised mounds.

The grave marker had been finished the night of the burial; was set in place above where the dead man's head lay only hours after it was entombed. A wooden cross amidst a sea of stone angels. The boy's heart had broken, ashamed by his inability to make this grave deserving of the man beneath. The cross simply read "Sands".

The young man's head bows and fingers drop from the wood to make trails in the rusty earth. It had been six years; six years since he had first seen _el hombre sin ojos, el ciego pistolero,_ stumble out of the small doorway.

While growing up, the boy had seen many tortured men leave by that door, screaming or ranting or lashing out at whatever moves nearby. But this man, _el señor_, had been different.

At the time, the boy's plan had been to quickly ride by _el señor_ and keep going. He had heard of _muchachos jovenes_ who had been killed by madmen who had emerged from that door, and he himself had seen what those men could do in blind pain. Memories of the panic that seized hold of him in the same instant that _los manos del señor_ had. Memories of the fear he had felt, expecting _el señor_ to ring his neck. 

Instead of facing _el loco de atar _he had feared, he had been greeted by a voice that was steady and hands that did not shake. The cartels had not killed his spirit.

The young man shakes his head. He knows now why had helped _el señor_, why he had gone back to find him, why he returns to the grave of _el ciego pistolero_ every year on _El Día de Los Muertos_. He had grown up in the shadow of fear that had been thrown down by the cartel lords; had feared them more each day as he watched family and friends die at the hands of their hired gunmen.

But _el señor_ did not submit to the cartels, or to their torture. _El señor_ remained strong. For the first time in his life the boy had tasted hope on his lips. 

That hope had left a bitter taste in the boy's mouth when el señor died. Infection had clawed into his wounds, burned away at his life. Nothing could be done. It pained the boy to see this man dying; lying feverish and rambling in ailing oblivion. He had died within a month. The boy had not cried then.

And he was not going to cry now. Fingertips quickly brush away the single escaping tear as the young man's other hand opens the dark, worn satchel at his side. Fingers close around three wire stems and draw forth _tres floras amarillas_. 

_La señorita_ who lived next door had made them, had created from decorative paper and had given them scent with the perfume she always wore. She had handed them to him saying, "_Todos los muertos serían esplendidos hoy_."  

Wire stems push down into loose soil. The fake flowers mark a sign of poverty amongst heavily decorated headstones. But of all _las floras bonitas_ in the cemetery, the young man believes these paper creations the most beautiful. 

"_Unico el mejor para usted, Señor_," he whispers to the dead man beneath the soil. There is a long silence before the young man speaks again. "_Lo siento para que no se podería vengar antes. Pero ahora yo soy un hombre, y se vengaré_."

Hands again reach into the worn satchel and bring forth the gun belts and weapons he had stolen for _el señor_; that _el señor_ had died wearing. Fingers caress the leather straps almost lovingly before fastening them on. 

The young man stands, shoulders his satchel, and turns to leave the cemetery. Before his fourth step, he smiles and turns back to the lonely grave.

"_Yo las devolveré cuando he acabado_."

~Fin~

_el hombre sin ojos_ – the man without eyes

_el ciego pistolero_ – the blind gunman

_el señor_ – the man (a term used with respect)

_muchachos jovenes_ – young boys

_los manos del señor_ – the man's hands

_el loco de atar_ – raving lunatic

_El Día de Los Muertos_ – The Day of the Dead

_tres floras amarillas_ – three yellow flowers

_la señorita_ – young lady

_Todos los muertos serían esplendidos hoy_ – All of the dead should be beautiful today.

las floras bonitas – the pretty flowers

_Unico el mejor para usted, Señor_ – Only the best for your, sir.

_Lo siento para que no se podería vengar antes. Pero ahora yo soy un hombre, y se vengaré_. – I am sorry that I could not avenge you before. But now I am a man, and I will avenge you.

_Yo las devolveré cuando he acabado –_ I will return them when I have finished.

A/N: What do you think? And if you didn't catch it, Chiclet boy is going to hunt some cartel guys. Please review. Please? *holds out the collection tin*


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